


Take Me Into Your Hands

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag: s01e03 Feast, F/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 01:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: He can’t appreciate her skills properly, not a damn weakling like this one. Anyone could beat him up. He doesn’t know the difference between her and any other Mongol soldier, only that she’s the one who defeated him here and now, and she’s the one who has him between her knees on the ground. She isn’t a princess to him. She’s a woman, an ordinary woman who still made him fall.The silly boy doesn’t know what he’s playing with, and she loves it.





	Take Me Into Your Hands

Perhaps Khutulun likes him because he’s a foreigner.

Not because of the look, of course. Not because he’s a pink-skinned round-eyed blond boy who doesn’t know how to ride a horse or wrestle—although frankly there is something a little adorable about his ineptitude, too—but because it’s so obvious that he has no idea of anything about the Mongolian court, about Mongolian royalty, about politics. No clue about anything of the sort.

Of course, that doesn’t sound very attractive. In theory, she would agree that it only makes him stupid. And when she hears that Kublai’s taken on a pet Latin from her father, she wonders if he’s finally gotten “too civilized” like all the rumors say, and her father convinces her that Kublai’s justified to be eccentric however he wishes as the Khan of khans, and she agrees. But she doesn’t think the Latin can be anything worth talking about (except as an oddity) until she comes face to face with him, and.

The way he looks at her.

No, it’s not like she’s never had a man look infatuated with her before. Half her father’s men are infatuated with her. But that’s what they are, her father’s men, infatuated with her because of her father and her title and her rumored skills. They would do anything for her—because they are loyal to Lord Kaidu. 

But the Latin looks at her from across the street, and she can tell he doesn’t know a damn thing about her. His eyes are wide and soft, not awestruck but simply admiring and a little confused. He probably hasn’t seen a woman dressed like her before. It’s obvious he doesn’t know who she is, who her father is, what she can do. 

There’s something refreshing about that.

So she goes over to him. Makes small talk. He can banter well enough, though he doesn’t have the golden tongue the rumors spoke of. Maybe he’d do better speaking in Italian. Maybe he’d be more in his element back in Venice.

“And have you taken many women into your hands?” she asks him, wondering if back where he’s from he’s smoother, maybe more of a flirt, maybe a bit more attractive when he’s less out of his element.

He tells her yes, oh yes, many, many women.

He’s really bad at lying.

Shit, the way his face looks lit only by the distant firelight—soft cheeks and lips illuminated with a warm glow while cold shadow rests on his forehead. Is his forehead cool in truth? She wants to press their heads together, wants to check if his lips are truly so soft, wants to see the way those round eyes might widen or flutter shut, the way he might stutter if she touched him below the waist. She was wrong—the Latin does have an appeal, though she’s pretty certain this isn’t what endeared him with Kublai.

“Take me into your hands,” she says, just to see him taken aback.

She waits until he reaches out a hand to bat it away from her cheek, which takes him longer than she would have expected. Damn he’s shy. Another reason she knows he was lying about having all those women. She wonders if he’s ever had a woman before. She wonders at what point in their encounter she decided that was going to change tonight.

He says he’s wrestled before. Looks more confident now. Once again, she’s struck by how little he knows about her. Every other man who comes at her, who has come at her, has known the stakes. They know if they win, she is theirs—her own declaration, her own decision. They see perhaps an opportunity to gain political advantage or bed a beautiful woman, or perhaps a danger if they win that causes them to fight less hard than usual out of fear of her father’s wrath. But they see the possibilities for what they are. This Latin, this Marco…

He sees nothing.

If she lost to him, he would probably get up. Say something gentlemanly. Walk away. No one would ever have to know. He would not realize he had won a chance with her. He would not try to make her his.

It would be nice.

Of course, losing to a man like this? Isn’t even a possibility.

His roots are weak. Forget that, his whole body is weak. His arms bend easily under her grip, his knees, his shoulders. He tries to use a few basic wrestling moves and utterly fails. She topples him with less effort than she might employ in knocking over a table, and pins him easily to the ground.

He is breathing hard under her, eyes bright and impressed. He can’t appreciate her skills properly, not a damn weakling like this one. Anyone could beat him up. He doesn’t know the difference between her and any other Mongol soldier, only that she’s the one who defeated him here and now, and she’s the one who has him between her knees on the ground. She isn’t a princess to him. She’s a woman, an ordinary woman who still made him fall.

The silly boy doesn’t know what he’s playing with, and she loves it.

She pushes his shoulders harder against the ground. “You like this?” she asks him. “You like losing to me?”

He murmurs, “It was a pleasure to fight you.”

She loves, she decides, even the accent on the word “pleasure.” She loves the fact that she doesn’t know if the word carries the same sexual connotations in Italian, if he is trying to come on to her or if he’s doing it by accident. Either way it’s working pretty damn well.

She doesn’t lower herself gracefully to his lips. She lets herself collapse on top of him, lets their mouths collide, sloppy and hard. Yes, his lips are soft. He has stubble all over his cheeks, not as clean shaven as a Mongol warrior ought to be nor a full grown beard. It is an odd texture. She memorizes it, rubbing her cheeks against his, all the while keeping his shoulders pinned. This is still a wrestling match—maybe. He groans. Whatever it is, she is still winning.

Underneath her he has grown hard. She sits up, putting her weight ever so slightly on just the right place, and he moans. She wants to think it is funny—men are so easily aroused at absolutely anything, men have no self control when a woman is touching them, a fact she has taken heavy advantage of in wrestling matches in the past—but she can’t because for once she’s wet too. It’s not even like she’s been very aroused the past week or so. It’s not that time of month at all. But he’s so pliable and innocent under her, utterly unlike a hardened warrior, so willing to bend to her, helpless against her. And it gets to her the way no one else has in a long time.

She always says when she marries it will be a warrior greater than her. That is not this man. But he has not bested her—the possibility of marriage is not present in the slightest. He doesn’t have to be a great warrior for her to want a quick fuck.

(And supposedly her virginity is promised to the man who defeats her but her virginity was gone long ago, and half the court knows it and pretends they don’t.)

She grinds against him, slow and steady, bobbing up and down, up and down, letting his cock rub between her legs. They’re both wearing pants, thick pants that are probably chafing him right now. She isn’t going to strip here, only a short distance away from the fire and the festival night. They will simply have to make do. She pushes at his chest and then pulls at his shirt. In and out. In and out. It’s a simple rhythm. Like the art of riding a pony. She bets he’s inept at that too.

She dismounts before either of them reaches completion. They will be wanted by the fire in a minute—she can hear the bustle getting louder. There is no time, no time—

He is scrambling to his feet. A pity—she would have liked to help him rise. He is very light, and it would have been nice to feel his weight a moment longer.

“Thank you,” he says awkwardly.

No, she thinks. He has never had a woman before. Still hasn’t had a woman—damn the location. If there were only time to take him into a private tent, or if they were somewhere more remote—but they aren’t, and that will have to wait for another time. If ever.

“I never got your name,” he says.

She smiles. He will hear it soon enough.

“We will speak later, Marco Polo,” she says as she walks away. He does not immediately follow. Probably wants to make sure his shirt is straight. He looks pretty debauched, and while she wishes he could just stay that way it is probably better if he doesn’t. Officially she is still a virgin. Officially even kissing her is akin to a crime.

She sees the difference, later. When she saves him in the wrestling match from a man with probably twice his skill. Yes, he knows now. He knows who she is. She isn’t just the woman who beat him anymore.

It’s probably a good thing for him to learn about Mongol politics. A man that soft with bend and break too easily—will die if he’s a pet at Kublai’s court and maintains such naïveté, such innocence. But she regrets the knowledge in his eyes when he looks at her. Ah yes. There, reflected in his pupils. There is the princess. There is the woman who can defeat all comers, the daughter of Kaidu. Yes, he knows.

She can feel in her stomach that he will never try to kiss her again.

**Author's Note:**

> I JUST FINISHED WATCHING MARCO POLO SEASON ONE ON A TWO DAY BINGE AND OOOOH BOY  
> I feel a little guilty because like Byamba/Khutulun and Marco/Kokachin are decent ships but Khutulun/Marco was so good. They only interact a couple times but I ship it like whooooaaaa.  
> You may be able to tell but there was one scene I liked in particular ;)  
> Tell me where the fandom at, man. It looks like the fic is kind of sparse though I'm probably going to binge read that too before watching Season Two. Also, are you supposed to read Marco Polo's writings to be a real fan because tbh that is definitely not going to happen.  
> Comments and kudos would be much appreciated!


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